The Other Scarf
by flutflutflyer
Summary: He wasn't a spirit animal. But when you lose something like that, the heartbreak is nearly unendurable. Bolin/Pabu. One-shot.


For as long as Bolin can remember, Mako has had their father's scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, red as the sunset, soft as their parents' voices tucking them to sleep, and unique. The _only_ such scarf.

But that was okay.

Because Bolin had his own scarf.

* * *

The breeze from Yue Bay sweeps over the cliff-side overlooking the water, pushing the clouds towards the city, the promise of rain fresh in the air. From far-off, children's laughter rises and flows with the wind, blowing back his hair as he kneels in front of the bay, something warm and soft in his trembling hands.

He opens his eyes and buries his face in the fire ferret's fur.

"_Hey, Mako, look at this!" he cries out, his words echoing from the walls of the abandoned alley, the hem of his shirt heavy in his grasp, weakened from hunger. His brother is examining the form of a deceased elephant rat, decapitated by a closing dumpster, as if trying to decide how edible it is, and he lifts his head, fixing his amber gaze on Bolin._

"_What's wrong, Bo?"_

_He blinks. "Look." Unfurling the bottom of the ragged shirt, he reveals a small bundle of fiery puff cradled in the fabric._

"Pabu," he whispers, fighting back the inevitable flow of tears. His thumbs find their usual positions just under the fire ferret's front legs, the little paws limp, unmoving. Pabu doesn't feel like Pabu anymore, the stillness replacing the constant motion, the agonising quiet replacing the soothing squeaks and comforting clicks, a lifeless cold steadily replacing the heat of his best friend's body.

If there was any one thing he would ask for, it would be feeling Pabu run along him one last time, tiny fire ferret feet tickling him. Reminding him he is never alone, even when Korra and Mako are angry at him for something or other. Telling him there is always someone there for him.

But not anymore.

"_I found him in a cardboard box with some others, but I think they died," he announces brightly, his eyes twinkling. "I'll call him Pabu."_

_Mako shakes his head and puts his hand on his brother's shoulder. "No, Bo, you can't. It's another mouth to feed. We don't have enough for ourselves." He glances at the red fluff, tranquil as immotile stone. "I don't even think it's alive, Bo."_

"_Watch." With a gentle puff of air, he breathes on his newfound friend's face until the fire ferret stirs, its nose twitching, its ears tilted back, its eyes bright and full of trust. "He's mine now. He's my Pabu." He gazes pleadingly at Mako, slanting his eyebrows and protruding his lower lip. "Please?"_

The spade digs into the hard ground. He could use earthbending, but this is . . . this is something he needs to do for himself. Clumps of earth fall away, the pile growing with the deluge of memories that pours through him. Of his fire ferret. Of his best friend. Of Pabu.

When the tears come, he drops the spade and claws at the ground with his fingers, blood and sweat and the distant echoes of soft fur mingling on the tips, pain shooting through his arms. After a forever he sits back, the cuts on his palm not yet stinging, crimson pooling in the lines, the shallow grave waiting patiently, oh so patiently, in a way that shakes the remains of his broken heart from his chest and tosses them into the hole to be covered with earth and never seen again.

"_Bo, we can't. I'm sorry." His brother studies him, and he shies away, gathering the baby fire ferret in his arms, and it scampers up his shoulder and around his neck, its wet nose pushing into the hollow of his throat._

_He laughs. "Look, Mako, I have a scarf now too! Can't I keep him please?"_

_His brother glances at the elephant rat again and sighs, reflectively touching his scarf with his right hand. "But why Pabu?"_

He lifts the fire ferret and presses his finger to Pabu's throat as though checking for a pulse, seeking to correct his error, begging the spirits to make him _wrong_. But he's right, the one time he doesn't want to be. His breaths shudder; he moves to place the lifeless body into the grave, but his joints lock, the shivers rushing through him too powerful to ignore, and finally he drops Pabu into the grass.

"I can't do it. _I can't do it!_" The words rip out of him. He hates himself. He's too weak. He's always been too weak. He can't do it.

He _can't_.

Out of nowhere he feels hands on his elbows, weight pressing into his back, the corner of a red scarf curled over his collarbone.

"_That's what Mommy called you sometimes, remember?" He grins earnestly at his brother, scratching the scruff of the fire ferret's neck. "When you accidentally shocked yourself, and your hair was sticking straight up, and she called you a puffball? I remember that. I wanted to name him after you." Inhale. "Can I keep him please?"_

_Something shines in Mako's eyes. "Yeah." He covers his mouth with scarf, his voice muffled and far away. "You can keep him."_

His hands quake as he drapes the fire ferret on his shoulders, two fingers holding Pabu's nose against his throat. "Look, Mako. I have a scarf now, too." His voice breaks on the last word. "Can't I keep him?" Tears again, the salty taste on his tongue. "_Please_?"

Together, they lay the fire ferret in the grave, and he gazes one last time at his best friend, his partner in crime, his one and only Pabu.

One and only.

The earth crumbles over the fire ferret, covering the fiery fluff, until the ground is smooth again save for the wet splashes murmuring of tears.

He draws a stone from the soil and bends it into a grave marker in the shape of a fire ferret. His brother's arms are warm around his waist as he scratches out a simple message, one to last for eternity, if not in life, then in memories.

_Pabu._

_A fire ferret like no other._

_A pet, a best friend, and a brother._

_What the spirits claim will still live on._

_For in dreams no one is truly gone._

* * *

For as long as Bolin can remember, Mako has had their father's scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, red as the sunset, soft as their parents' voices tucking them to sleep, and unique. The _only_ such scarf.

But that was okay.

Because Bolin had his own scarf.

And it's still okay.

Because he has the memories.

And Mako.

He still has Mako.


End file.
